Fidel Castro is dead!

This tweet says it all. It says everything about the election and the appalling state of this nation’s moral and intellectual heart.

No analysis. No introspection. No hopes for the future.  No thought.

Just noise. Just empty, hot air.

This is what we get, it seems. This is what we receive as penance for gay marriage, wider access to healthcare and daring to let a black man lead for eight years.

Fidel Castro is dead!

This is what we get so that a few of the most butt-hurt of this nation’s god-fearing white people can feel comfortable again. Feel as though they not only still matter, but that they’re in control.

Receiving an actual game show host as President seems a steep price to pay for inching toward equal rights at a pace that would make a snail’s race seem like the Kentucky Derby.

Fidel Castro is dead!

America, my heart is forever broken.

Our collective to-do list

If you’re like me, you are drowning in a swamp of despair and dystopian confusion in the wake of presidential election. If you’re even more like me, you’re pissed as fuck, full of rage, and you don’t know what to do with that energy.* Here are some concrete ideas:

Donate to a non-profit that really needs it right now

Personally, I prefer to give within my community as opposed to national charities. If you can spare the extra dollars, here are a few election-specific ideas of non-profits you can donate to: A local food bank; your local chapter of Planned Parenthood; your local chapter of the ACLU; a local suicide hotline or mental health facility; your local women’s shelter. But really, whatever non-profit seems appropriate right now will do.

When you see discrimination, DON’T LET IT SLIDE

The current conventional wisdom is to not confront bigots, because getting angry in their faces supposedly helps to convince them that they are right. (Or some such shit.) So if you see someone obviously being hassled because of their race, religion or ideology, become that person’s new friend. You don’t even have to confront the bully. Just start up a conversation with the person being harassed, and maybe even encourage them to leave the space with you.

(Between you and me though, if I thought I could get away with it, without being physically threatened, I plan to video any harasser I encounter and then plaster that shit all over social media, because I still think that good ol' fashioned public shunning ain’t such a bad thang. People seem to have lost their shit and forgotten that being a bigot is a BAD thing. I don't mind reminding them.)

Volunteer

Become a Big Sister or Big Brother. Deliver food for Meals on Wheels. Lead a reading or study group at your local jail or prison. Volunteer in a classroom at your local school. Help out at a soup kitchen. Become an escort for women going into abortion clinics. Be there for your fellow American. Let’s show each other that we support each other regardless of our backgrounds.

Subscribe to a newspaper

#HerrCryBaby HATES the First Amendment and has threatened to chip away at it. The New York Times has vowed to fight tooth-and-nail to protect the First Amendment, and Americans need to join the fight. Purchasing a subscription for any newspaper that doesn’t buy into far-right rhetoric will do. We NEED our journalists in this frightening time, and journalists have to eat, too. The cool thing is that these days, a digital subscription means no pesky recycling.

Get familiar with your representatives and make them earn their salaries

According to a former staffer for a representative, phone calls are the most effective way of contacting the people who are supposed to represent you in the government. Emails and letters are easily ignored, but the phone ringing off the hook all day sends a clear message. They may not like your message, but they can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, either.

Run for office

Doesn’t have to be a national office. Far right extremists have quietly, and very effectively, taken over our city councils, county commissions, school boards and pretty much government at every level. If you are at all inclined to publicly support equality, now is the time.

Protest

Protesting is as American as apple pie, and with social media, finding your local protests is a piece of cake. Have you been thinking about joining your local Black Lives Matter group? Do it. There’s probably a Pantsuit Nation group in your city or state. Protests provide a visible illustration of our collective frustration. (Poetry!) Politicians and news outlets cannot ignore large gatherings of humans. Now is the time to channel your inner Mahatma Gandhi, Susan B. Anthony, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. to let your unrest be known.

Be a friend to a human in the target group

Brown and black folks are getting the worst of the harassment right now. If you are a white person, let the people of color in your life know that you do not support the recent wave of bigotry sweeping the nation. Let them know you support them and mean it. Listen. Don't tell them how to feel or what to think. Just listen. And if they need you to physically be with them in public, do that, too. If you're a dude, listen to the women in your life who are hurting because once again, sexual crime is being normalized.

Talk and take care

Don’t be afraid to talk about these issues with your friends and family who will listen. None of this new madness can become the new normal. It is NOT normal, and we can’t assume everything will be okay. The next four years may be rough, and we’re all going to need each other.

DO THIS POSTCARD THING!

#HerrCryBaby has chosen actual white supremacist Stephen Bannon as his chief strategist. Let him know THIS IS NOT OKAY.

Join in and send a postcard directly to Trump! Here are the basic instructions to participate:

** IMPORTANT - Don't mail your card until NOV. 26th **

1. Get a postcard from your state - any picture that represents your state.
2. In the message section, write this simple message: NOT BANNON!
3. Sign your name if you wish
4. Address it as follows:
Donald Trump
c/o The Trump Organization
725 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10022
5. Affix a stamp - you can use a 35 cent postcard stamp, or a normal letter stamp.
6. Take a picture of your postcard that you can share on social media on Nov. 26-28th
7. Drop it in the mail between Saturday, Nov 26th and Monday, Nov. 28th to create a concentrated avalanche of postcards. 

8. On Nov. 26-28th, Tweet and share the heck out of your photo using the hashtags #postcardavalanche #stopbannon

*If you're NOT like me and you wanna go throw down in the parking lot, meet me outside.

Things for which I am grateful, and things I hope

First and foremost, I am grateful that my child is healthy. (Knock wood.) I am grateful to have a husband who sees me as a full and equal partner and human on this planet. I am grateful for their love to me, and I am grateful that I can share my love with them.

I am grateful to have so many kick-fucking-ass friends right now. Both close friends and acquaintances. Most of my friends understand what a fucked-up move electing Trump to the presidency is. They understand it and they are going to fight it. They are clever, and intelligent and funny and their insight is making it so I can laugh occasionally, even though things feel so heavy and dark right now.

These are the things I hope for our future:

I hope that Donald Trump is a better president than all our wildest dreams. I hope that his economic policies lift the people out of despair who need it the very most. I hope that the people who believe money trumps civil rights make enough money so that they can feel kindness toward those who may not look like themselves.

I hope Trump disappoints the racists by not building his stupid fucking wall. I hope he has something to say about police brutality. I hope he addresses income inequality and surprises us on the environment. 

I hope the country can come together. I sincerely, sincerely mean those things.

I also hope that Donald Trump hates every fucking second of his new job. I hope he’s awake 20 hours of every day, 7 days a week, for the next 4 years. I hope it is a depressing, anxiety-inducing, waking, walking, talking, horrible nightmare. I hope he is mad that he can’t play golf whenever he feels like it. I hope he gets pissed that he can’t fuck women without a Secret Service agent listening outside the room. I hope that his big empty head explodes when he figures out that he’s not a dictator, but a prisoner.

Even if he ends up being a halfway-not-so-horrible president, I hope this is the penance Big Don pays for jacking this country around as though it was his own personal episode of Survivor. And if it ends up that he does turn out to be the shitty, racist, vicious, misogynist pig president me and my friends are worried about, the kind who enacts horrible humanitarian policies and sends us down the economic tubes, then he deserves to hate his fucking job, anyway.

Finally, I hope YOU have a lovely day!

Apples and dog turds*

For the sake of clarity, President-elect Donald Trump will be referred to as “fuckface” (lowercase) in this blog post.

If I hear one more white person whine, “We didn’t protest when Obama was elected,” I seriously don’t know what I might do or say.

Oh, you didn’t protest a lovely man with an intelligent wife who has spent his life working to make life better for others. How noble of you. And also, how dare you compare protesting Obama and protesting fuckface in the same sentence. In the same context. It’s like comparing apples to dog turds.

The rest of us are absolutely devastated that our country elected an accused child rapist, racist, woman-hating, narcissistic ass hole who has no qualms about cheating his fellow hard working Americans out of millions of dollars for work that they performed.

“Give him a chance,” they say.

The way you gave Obama a chance? A man who patiently weathered your hate for eight years and STILL managed to push through legislation to provide healthcare for millions of Americans? A man who worked to help YOU and YOUR FAMILY even whilst you spit in his face?

Nope.

I sincerely hope that the fuckface administration is successful in helping my fellow Americans. I also sincerely doubt that will happen.

Those of us who did NOT vote for trump: We have work to do. We have anger, sadness and frustration that we must somehow morph into productive work. Now is not the time to worry about being embarrassed or quiet. When you see people of color, LGBTQ+ folks, Muslims … anyone who has been marginalized by this election—being harassed or discriminated against, you must speak up. WE must speak up. We have to let our fellow Americans know that WE see them. We hear them. WE care.

Even if President-elect fuckface and his supporters don’t.

*Thanks to my friend Lana for the blog post title! :)

Hot dogs and love

It has come to my attention that some white people out there insist on referring to the Black Lives Matter movement as a “terrorist organization.” Because of the explosion of blatant police brutality toward people of color that’s being caught on video because of the proliferation of smart phones, I became curious about the BLM movement and decided to check it out myself.

Recently, our local chapter of BLM held an open meeting at a public park. I went with a friend who is also a white lady like myself. Because her place is just a couple of blocks away from the park, I met her there and we walked over to the park, carrying lawn chairs with us.

A black lady driving an SUV slowed down when she saw us. “Are you going to the Black Lives Matter meeting?” she asked.

We affirmed that we were.

“Would you like a ride?” she asked.

We let her know that we were fine walking — at that point we were only maybe a hundred yards from the meeting spot in the park — so we waved and smiled and thanked her. She smiled and waved back and drove on.

When we arrived at the meeting, I took note of the makeup of the crowd, which was extremely diverse. People of all ages were there, from little kids running around the park to older people. The group was a reflection of our community: black folks, white folks and Native Americans, though our community is predominantly white.

The meeting featured a scheduled line-up of speakers. Most of the speakers were young people, of various races. First, they handed out pitchforks and torches and told us to attack the strongholds of whitey. HAHAHA! I’m totes joking. What actually happened was that most of the speakers thanked the crowd for caring enough to show up. They thanked us for simply being there and acknowledging that there are real racial problems in this country that need to be addressed. They demonized no one in particular and did not tell their own personal stories of discrimination, though that would’ve been okay with me had they done so.

One of the speakers made it clear that as a BLM member, everyone was expected to be respectful of everyone else, regardless of race, sexual orientation, gender identity or disability. He also emphasized that anyone who needed help getting to meetings for any reason only needed to ask and arrangements would be made to get that person to meetings. Then we were informed that there were hot dogs for sale for a small price to help raise some funds for the group. (I asked my friend later if she could remember if vegan hot dogs were offered. She could not. She did, however, want me to note that she ended up with several oak mite bites.)

At the end of the night, as the meeting broke up, it was announced that there were unsold hot dogs left, so anyone who was hungry was welcome to have one for free.

So that’s my big report on Black Lives Matter. To sum up: Zero calls for terror or crime against whitey. Lots of hot dogs and love.

Nothing

warning: sexual trauma triggers

Oh my gawd, you guys! I was so kind of happy that Donald Trump's pussy grabbing started a national conversation about the sexual harassment and rape of women, but as it turns out, I was mistaken! We don't need to have a conversation about the safety of our daughters AT ALL. Dudebros on the internet have explained to me again and again that the prevalence of sexual harassment and rape is really not happening as much as I think it is, and that when it does happen, it is really not all that bad after all.

Whew!

That eleven year old boy who pinched my ass when I was also eleven? The beginning in a string of incidents in which my bodily space was invaded without my permission? Events that would turn me into the hardened bitch I am now?

Never happened.

That guy who pulled up in his skanky Datsun to ask me directions when I was twelve years old walking home from grade school? The one who was totally wanking it when I leaned in to hear his soft voice because I wanted to be polite? That never happened either! My mother apparently did not call the police who took my statement while I was afraid and mortified, only to never be heard from again. 

And then, later that evening, I did NOT experience a creepy feeling of dissociation as though I was remembering the incident as a movie that happened to someone else, a feeling which my mother had to explain to me was totally natural.

That known tough kid who followed me off the junior high bus when we were thirteen, grabbed my arms and forced his tongue in my face in my front yard because I was afraid he might hurt me if I didn’t? That didn’t happen either. And if it did? I can see now that it was totally funny and not the least bit terrifying for a latch key kid with no adult at home.

All those other things that happened to me? Times when guys overpowered me so they could put their hands or other parts where they damn well pleased? Well, those incidents apparently didn’t happen either, or somehow I "misinterpreted" them, so I won’t keep going on about those.

Some of my very best lady sister friends really weren’t raped. When I was fifteen, one of my best female friends who was also fifteen at the time did not call me to tell me that she was no longer a virgin because she’d been raped in the parking lot after a concert. My other friends whose first sexual experiences were rape? Must’ve been mistaken. And my one friend? She was never raped at gunpoint in her car in front of her apartment. All my other friends who've been raped over the years? Turns out they were overreacting.

Thank goodness!

I love that men and women aren’t living parallel lives in which too many of half the population is in denial about what’s really happening to the other half.

Such a relief. And such a relief to know that I don't need to bother to teach my daughter to protect herself from the same fucking bullshit women have put up with for literally fucking ever. What was I worrying my little woman head over, again?

Oh that’s right. Nothing.

Working sanity

Growing up there was a notion my father drilled into my head: “Don’t ever quit a job before you get another one.” It was one rare nugget of practical advice that either of my parents had ever handed me to prepare me for the world. Perhaps because it stood out so much, I took it to heart.

Just as I can be an excellent student in school, I can be an excellent employee, because I crave approval. It's almost embarrassing how much I desire it. I’m not an ass kisser. Don’t get me wrong. But I like to be acknowledged for my strengths in a way that’s nearly as desperate a child seeking parental approval.

That’s why, when my mind began to consume itself with a static I didn’t recognize, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do my job much longer, and the shame was sickening. But I couldn’t think clearly enough to work. This wasn’t one of the usual bouts of depression and anxiety I was used to living with. It was a dark caul rapidly engulfing my brain, shutting down reason and higher function leaving me with only base, aching emotion with which to navigate the days. The din in my head was deafening. Somehow, I could still sleep at night, but only because I had to sleep to keep from losing it completely.

Contributing to the din was my father’s voice in my head: DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. YOU’LL BE A LOSER. A LOSER. IF YOU DON’T PULL YOURSELF UP BY YOUR BOOTSTRAPS YOU’LL BE A MOOCHING LOSER PART OF THE UNWASHED MASSES OF TAKERS AND BUMS.

Oddly, it was his addition to the din that probably pushed me over the edge. It was yet one more reminder that I would never be good enough, never be good enough, never be good enough. No matter how much work or effort. With no sense of foundation and self, I simply crumbled from the inside, the pressure from the world imploding me into dysfunction. That’s how I think of myself now: In some sort of “function.” I’m either dysfunctional or functional, each day somewhere else on the spectrum. Exceptionally functional days are sweet like sunshine in my heart. Low function days are crushing. Mostly because I don’t get much done. Literally dysfunctional. Like a broken appliance, sitting on the kitchen counter, wanting to be of service, but unable to work.

So I quit. After three and a half years, I quit without another job lined up, and without any real plan. It was terrifying and dehumanizing. Still is.  

And I’m lucky. So lucky. I know that. When I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do, I headed straight for our local mental health center, and we had the funds to pay for that. But I saw people there who clearly couldn’t afford it. I saw a woman in obvious distress come in seeking help, who’d never been there before, telling the people behind the desk that she’d been told she could be seen immediately. The people behind the desk told her that simply wasn’t true, and my heart broke for her, but I didn’t allow myself to feel it. I blocked it out. But I knew it was a scenario playing out daily, in Every Town, U.S.A. People go to mental health facilities all the time needing immediate help, but immediate help simply isn’t forthcoming, unless one goes to the ER. How did a nation that claims to be a leader in the world get to this place? I wonder.

I don’t have to work right now. The loss of my salary to our household is inconvenient, but not impossible. It hurts so much to think about the alternative, that I might be a single mom forced to try to function and work and be the only parent to a child, that I simply can’t imagine it. I can’t go there. I don’t have to, so I won’t. Because it hurts to think about. And right now, my goal is to not hurt. So I try to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay. I have that luxury.

The election has been excruciating. I do read about it extensively, but I cannot tolerate watching any of it on television. Something about seeing and hearing the words come out of the faces is beyond overwhelming.

Every day I get up and I try to do something. I try to create. I try to write. I try to schedule interviews for my freelance writing work. If I can’t do those things, I cook. I clean. I try to be useful and make myself worth something. Yeah, I still think I have to work at being “worth something.” I may never let that go. After all, even if your ass was living out in the woods, you could sit there and try being “worth something,” but unless you actually move your butt and gather some firewood and berries, you’ll die. So I may always link being worth something to doing something useful. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

Thankfully, the din is gone. It took about a month of truly resting for the first time in years. The static quieted a little more each day, and now my head is mostly my own again, clearer than it’s been in a long time. I’ve since figured out that the din was part of a particularly nasty manic episode (mania doesn’t always feel good), and the other symptoms of bipolar 2 have finally explained my rapid cycles of depression and feeling so fidgety and irritated that I want to peel my own skin off and be someone else. Or worse, punch someone in the face. To achieve the quiet, I had to let almost everything go. I’m not trying to please my parents (whom I’ll never please) or a boss or even my sweet husband who never asked me to prove myself, but somehow I’d convinced myself that I needed to. I’m just selfishly taking care of me and reconnecting with my kiddo, because in the din, I had pushed her away. I pushed her away because I was afraid of hurting her. Turns out I hurt her anyway.

I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but for now, I’m learning to build a person from the ground up. It’s a lot of work.

Locker Room Talk (NSFW, sexual assault trigger warning)

Okay, kids. Let’s do this. Trump is a total racist, misogynistic douche who deserves to be flushed down a toilet. Hopefully, most people understand that. For anyone still dismissing what he said in the audio recording with Billy Bush as “just locker room talk,” we need to discuss what really does constitute locker room talk and what does not, because a huge percentage of the male population seems to not understand what “locker room talk” actually is. So let’s get down and dirty. (I can already hear some of you not wanting to let a woman tell you what locker room talk should be, but fuck you, since you don’t seem to get it.)

1) It is PERFECTLY okay to talk about how beautiful a woman is. It is okay for you to talk about how she’s so beautiful, or hot, or smokin’ or even fuckable! that you want to fuck her for hours and hours (yeah, right) with your amazing penis until she is converted to another religion and changes her political views. Perfectly okay.

2) It is FINE for you to talk about boobs and pussies and legs and feet and whatever else it is about women that makes you so horny you can’t even think straight! Talk away! Have fun!

3 ) It is acceptable to talk about the woman you fucked the night before and describe it all in detail to your bros. Women talk about that kind of thing, too, believe it or not, with our friends. Woo hoo!

4) It would be LOVELY if you would also discuss the mind of the woman you fucked the night before. Not the stupid fucking bitch you nailed, but the hot smokin’ woman with the quirky laugh who was kind enough to let you enter her body so that you could experience sexual relief. It would be really cool if you talked about women in that way, because not only do we deserve it, but it raises the level of our worth in society. It’s not required, but if you give a flying fuck about your daughters, it absolutely should be.

Here is what is categorically NOT okay, even in “locker room talk”:

“I’m automatically attracted to beautiful women — I just start kissing them, it’s like a magnet,” Donald Trump told Billy Bush while taping an interview for Access Hollywood. “I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.”

“Grab ’em by the pussy,” he added. “You can do any of that.”

When you hear “locker room talk” of that nature, you have just heard and witnessed a PERSON reduced to a PIECE OF ASS. You have also just heard a man discuss a potential crime. A crime that is worse than disgustingly worse than any theft, because it is a complete disregard of a woman’s bodily autonomy.

Follow? When another man in your presence talks about women in that way, he has turned a human being with rights and thoughts into an object. We all know you’ve heard it. Maybe from that acquaintance of yours … Let’s call him Don. Maybe you’re thinking, “Yeah, Don is a disgusting pig, but oh well, that’s just how Don is and what can I do about it?” But every time you give Don a pass on his behavior, every time you write his words off as “just a joke” or “no big deal,” you are complicit in empowering the Dons of the world a little bit more. They’re reinforced in their belief that women aren’t equal to men. That we aren’t really people. That we’re just objects to be done with as they please and discarded after they’ve ejaculated.

When that kind “locker room talk” happens in places when women aren’t around, we need you to call it out and correct it. When it happens in locker rooms, and on basketball courts, and when you’re playing HALO, and behind closed doors in office buildings. Because every time you let Don, or Harry or Bob slide on that behavior, you are complicit in putting women in danger. Your mother, your sister, your daughters, your cousins, your female friends.

Let me break it down further: When Don or Harry or Bob thinks that it’s okay to talk about women like that, that’s it’s okay to think about women as though we’re just jackoff machines covered in flesh, and that it’s okay to treat women as such, then your mother, your sister YOUR DAUGHTER become potential victims to the Dons and the Harrys and the Bobs of the world.

And that shit needs to stop. 

Work it, boys

There are several frustrating things about being a human female on this planet. Some of these annoyances are pretty consistent throughout one's life. Other frustrating bullshit changes as one ages through different stages of one's life. 

Recently, I have noticed a change in the way I'm treated as a woman, and it's maybe the most fascinating, hilarious and awesome phenomenon I've yet experienced.

When my fellow old-broad friends and I go out for "girl's nite," (that term makes me barf), the young male servers act as though they are obliged to work for their tips by flirting with us. 

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.

That's right, ladies. If you can just keep yourself from cutting off some dude's wiener in a fit of woman-rage before the age of 40, eventually, some poor 24-year-old college kid is going to have to smile and coyly ask you for your I.D. when you order your glass of chardonnay, even though you are clearly old enough to teach him how to use a rotary phone. He eyes will flash in that come-hither fashion that you haven't seen from a man in years. He will pretend that he doesn't notice your neck skin might drag in your bowl of soup. He will be forced to act as though he doesn't see your crows-feet, age spots or your middle-aged paunch.  

And why is he doing this? He is doing this for money. OH, YEAH. I have actually arrived at the age when it is possible to wave a few dollars in a dude's face in exchange for some much deserved empty flattery.

It is literally the best thing ever.